


Our Little Game

by joyridingfuck



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Come Cry With Me, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Game!au, M/M, Slow Burn, and lots of self hate, and pain, but mostly Otayuri, guess i'll add them later on, kind-of-background Victuuri, otayuri - Freeform, there are going to be a lot more characters...., there's going to be angst, there's going to be lots of fluff, this is going to be hell, watch me slowly die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-24 23:00:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10751562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joyridingfuck/pseuds/joyridingfuck
Summary: "I heard you're a player. So, let's play a game. Let's sweet talk, let's play fight, let's talk twenty four-seven. Let's tell each other good morning and good night every day. Let's take walks together. Let's give each other nicknames. Let's go on dates. Let's talk on the phone all night long. Let's hold each other. Let's kiss and hug. And whoever falls in love first? Loses."





	Our Little Game

**Author's Note:**

> oh gosh, my first fic in forever. im so fuckin rusty but let's get crackin. thank you to @madamredwrites and @maz-2y5 on tumblr for beta-ing this chapter!

“Well, that was one way to go about it.”

 

Yuri Plisetsky looked up from his iPhone and straightened slightly, brushing off the sleeves of his deep burgundy three-piece. Bathed in the seductive, gold-orange lighting of Gotham Hall, he locked his phone with a click and swiftly slid it into one of his silk trouser pockets before nodding in acknowledgement.

 

 _Probably referring to the speech_ , he thought dimly.

 

Schooling his features, he brushed a stray strand of blond hair out of his eyes and studied the familiar face in front of him. Despite its familiarity, Yuri, much to his chagrin, couldn’t place a name to the face. Noticing that the choice of dress for the broad-shouldered man in front of him was of his own personal design, Yuri crossed his arms in front of his chest, mentally approving. Arching an elegant eyebrow, Yuri gazed keenly at the pair of sharp brown eyes in front of him, briefly tilting his head in way of asking what was wanted of him.

 

Yuri’s attention was soon diverted when his name was called from across the extravagant hall. With an apologetic shrug, he turned on his heel with an irritable sigh, furrowing his brow just as a blur of silver and blue sashayed towards him.

 

“Yuuurio!” the voice purred, “What are you doing?”

 

Yuri rolled his eyes as he was wrapped in a hug. Struggle was futile; Victor Nikiforov, despite his slender figure and sophisticated –not really, Yuri would frequently scoff to himself –  tastes, was well-known for his bone-crushing, body-numbing hugs.

 

Shoving the immature lawyer’s shoulder away from him, Yuri coughed distastefully.

 

“I was enjoying my life until you waltzed in,” he muttered in a deadpan voice, shooting the man a glare stemming more from habit than that of malice. Victor pouted before attempting to wrap an arm around Yuri again.

 

“But Yurio,” he protested when he was shrugged off, “aren’t you lonely? Come on, let’s get you a drink! You need a drink after giving speeches!” With a slight bounce in his step, the older Russian tugged insistently at Yuri’s arm, leading –dragging, really–  him towards the gala’s reception.

 

Yuri knew better than to resist, but, he refused to suppress the words of protests spilling from his mouth as Victor’s fingers wrinkled his suit, bumping into countless people in an effort to reach the white-cloth-covered tables laden with food and drink.

 

“Oi, Victor, you’re making yourself look stupid,” he complained. _Doesn’t mean that just because you’re stupid, you have to bring me along, too._

 

It was March in New York City. The onset of spring signified new birth, a new chapter; it was also a starting point, the phase that every success story buds and takes root from. Everyone knew that beginnings were just as, if not as, important as the pique of success; nobody made this clearer than Celestino Cialdini, founder of Apollo Corporations. In an effort not only to mark the beginning of spring, but the merge of artistic and innovative worlds, the Italian had arranged a fantastic event in one of Manhattan’s most coveted halls with the intent of doing just that.

Yuri suspected it was more of a publicity stunt than anything else, but kept his mouth shut.

 

Thus, the Apollonian Gala was planned. Paired with months’ worth of preparation and over-the-top invitations, it worked to bring doctors, artists and musicians, businessmen, and technological moguls alike “together for an intimate evening with reception to follow.”

 

Of course, once the public got a hold of the happenings, the heavy press coverage came as no surprise. Yuri had been working in his design studio, pleasantly being assaulted with fresh inspiration for a new line of dresses, when he received the smooth, black envelope through first class mail.

 

His initial reaction was that of surprise; not due to the fact that he had received an invite –after all, the Yuri Plisetsky would be attending as a guest of honor. No. Yuri was simply baffled by the extravagant and overindulgent design of the invitation. He didn’t think the event was worth all the energy and attention it was receiving; e-vites were much less costly and less likely to be lost. In any case, the gala would probably end up being like any other event he had had to attend: filled to the brim with suffocating individuals who, despite expertise in their respective fields, didn’t know when to shut the fuck up.

 

Setting his pen against his design sketchbook, he silently fingered the dark satin-like paper, running his fingers across the generously scribed letters in gold across the front, almost sure that the lettering was designed and rendered by hand. The borders were decorated with intertwining vines, leaves, and flowers that seemed to hover delicately off the envelope; it was almost too pretty to open.

 

Holding the invite up to his nose, he nearly rolled his eyes at the familiarity of the perfume. It was a mesmerizing, nearly addictive, too-sweet combination of cherry blossoms, orange, and summer sweet cranberries with the slightest tease of lavender. _Mila_.

 

“Earth to Yurio! Yurio! Yuri-chan~!”

 

Yuri groaned, slapping at Victor’s hand as he incessantly poked at his forehead. Theatrically dragging his slender fingers across his tired face, he snapped, “What do you want, old man?”

 

Hardly mindful of the green-blue eyes that dropped minutely with childish sadness, Yuri sucked in a breath when Victor waved two glasses of champagne under his nose. Suppressing the sharp pang that stabbed him in the stomach, he glanced warily at the glasses.

 

“Loosen up, Yurio! Have some fu–”

 

“Hey, I thought I reserved that nickname for our angry princess!”

 

If this had been an anime (not that… he was into anime), Yuri swore that he could have kicked the newcomer to the moon with ease.

 

“What are you doing here, Katsudon?” he said lazily, eyeing the exceptionally well-groomed man; the answer was already evident: where Victor was, Yuuri Katsuki was sure to be nearby.

Hardly giving the Japanese doctor and author a chance to respond, Victor cheered happily, face flushed as he shoved the champagne into Yuri’s hands.

 

“Yuuuuri!” he singsonged, voice thick with affection. “Moya lyubov! Where have you been? I missed yooou.”

 

Ignoring his partner, Yuuri simply greeted Yuri with an apologetic smile. Disregarding the habitual spite in Yuri’s voice, he said pleasantly, “How are you, Yurio? That was a wonderful speech you gave, I do think you managed to tug at everyone's heartstrings.”

 

Yuri gave a small nod, briefly recounting the numerous times Yuuri had willingly extended a helping hand, both physically and metaphorically speaking, and ultimately decided to keep his snarkiness to himself for the time being. It wasn't as if the sudden tightness squeezing his throat was helping anyway. Yuri swallowed thickly, panic slowly trickling into the back of his throat.

 

“It was beautiful!” Victor chimed in after getting over being ignored by his ‘moya lyubov.’ “I cried!” He hugged himself dramatically.

 

“It’s true,” Yuuri offered with a sheepish grin.

 

Yuri felt a surge of heat sprawl across his chest and looked down. He had no idea what on earth to do with the glasses of transparent golden liquid in his hands. Finally, he decided to take a cautious sip. He shuddered as the chilled sensation traveled down his throat and into his empty stomach.

 

Shrugging at Victor’s antics, Yuri briefly wondered, not for the first time since they met, how in the actual world of fuckery Victor had become such a coveted lawyer with his childish stupidity and immaturity that put even toddlers to shame.

 

A desperate pricking sensation needled his stomach from the inside; squirming, Yuri sucked in a tentative breath. The grand hall, with its easy laughter and gentle music, was suddenly too small to bear.

 

“Tell him,” Victor urged, batting his lashes as he latched onto Yuuri’s left arm, oblivious to Yuri’s accelerated breathing, to the way he was grasping the clear glasses until his fingernails dug into his palm. “Tell him how darling it is that he loves his grandpapa and how wonderful and sweet it is that is such an inspiration for our dear Yurio! Oh, what a cutie! He looked beautiful, didn’t he, Yuuri? Didn’t he?” he had begun shaking Yuuri’s shoulders in excitement. “Isn’t Yurio a darling baby? I’m so proud!”

 

“I’m right here, idiot,” Yuri said tentatively, glaring at the couple as he gradually began to feel like a hot air balloon, uncontrollable heat and dizziness effortlessly breeding sweat on his forehead.

 

He frowned, eyebrows knit tightly together, when he felt many pairs of eyes on them, realizing that the three of them were being regarded with the utmost form of curiosity by the rest of the company. He unfurled his fingers gingerly. After all, it wasn't every day they were able to witness the trio completely at home in such a socially competitive environment.

 

But Yuri couldn't focus on that. He wasn’t at home. Not tonight. Swallowing sand, he startled at the difficulty that came with breathing. Eyes widening ever so slightly, he clutched the champagne glasses helplessly, all the while struggling to maintain composure.

 

Victor, as expected, had already drunkenly turned his attention entirely to his partner in the span of .5 seconds. Completely enamored by Yuuri (based on the Japanese man’s formal attire, lack of ugly black-frame glasses, and flawlessly gelled hair, if Yuri had to guess), he pulled his partner in for a loving kiss, murmuring sweet stupidities into his lips. A bright pink blush dusted Yuuri’s cheeks as he attempted to push the drunk Russian man away.

 

Yuri took a large gulp of champagne. Hiding his contorted face behind the now half-empty glass, he seethed, despite the tightness in his chest, “Get a room you two!” before quickly making an exit.

 

Setting the glasses down on top of a nearby table with a heavy clink, Yuri undid the remaining buttons of his dress jacket and quickly weaved through the throng of chattering social elites, shaking his head quickly whenever someone cheerily tried to talk to him.

 

_Get away, get away, don’t talk to me. Please don’t talk to me._

 

Making his way across the marble floor of the magnificent hall, he hurried past the small stage of chamber musicians and dancing couples, barely acknowledging the men and women who were amiably congratulating and praising the world-renowned fashion designer. Not now.

 

Cameras were flashing. Stop. Yuri could hardly make out the blurry, featureless faces surrounding him.

 

_No. Stop._

 

Yuri dimly made out Yuuri’s loud apologies as he ducked behind a rich, red curtain that led to an open-door balcony. He let the material drop to the floor and it successfully muffled the noise inside as Yuri took an uneven breath, greedily inhaling the nighttime spring air and gasping in relief as he clenched and unclenched his hands. There was still a winter bite left in the air, but the Russian blond hardly minded the cold. He welcomed it.

 

Yuri raked shaky fingers through his long hair and pursed his lips. He forced himself to slow his pulse by inhaling and exhaling evenly. Yuri eventually began moving again, breathing shallowly and stepping onto the well-maintained grass, standing on the stone podium within the fenced private garden as it gave him a better view of the brilliantly-lit city he had come to call home.

 

Listening to the usual blare of horns, shouting of pedestrians, and general hubbub of Broadway, he felt the anxious racing in his chest ebb away, only to be replaced by a dull throbbing in his head. He hugged his arms into his stomach. Yuri hated, fucking hated, the overwhelming sense of vulnerability that was slowly engulfing him.

 

He was Yuri Plisetsky, for fuck’s sake! Anxiety was something that plagued Katsudon in his baby years, not Yuri fucking Plisetsky.

 

It wasn’t so much as vulnerability as it was numbness, confusion, annoyance.

 

He began kneading his temple with his thumbs and groaned, wincing at his own force. Parting his dry lips on an exhale, he cursed aloud at the ridiculousness of the situation. He had no idea what had set him off; Yuri and Victor were no different than they usually were when they were around him. The evening was supposed to be like any other gala Yuri had attended in the past: get there fashionably late, make his rounds, do what was expected of him…

 

Biting his lip, the blond designer was about to remove his burgundy jacket when he suddenly heard footsteps come from behind him.

 

He stopped and turned around.

 

Him again.

 

Yuri squinted against the illumination offered by the city lights and dropped his hands to his sides, watching the incoming man with unveiled interest. What is he doing here?

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

The broad-shouldered man neared, and Yuri could see a glass of red wine in his hands.

 

“Is that your way of telling me you don’t want to share?”

 

The voice was unbelievably entrancing in its own coating of a unique accent; it was the same voice he had earlier this evening. Yuri shook his head to clear his thoughts. Shifting slightly, he winced at the heat that somehow moved from the chest and into his torso.

 

“Only if you make me,” he countered with an unspoken challenge as he crossed his arms.

 

The man chuckled. Chuckled! _Oh, God_.

 

“Otabek Altin.” He said, a ghost of a smile shadowing his lips in the semi-dark.

 

 _Hero of Kazakhstan_ , Yuri remembered. He had heard of the man before; Otabek Altin was the heir of multinational technology company Zenith. Sucking in a breath to calm the tight knot in his stomach, he nodded.

 

“Yuri Plisetsky.”

 

“I know.”

 

“As do I.”

 

Otabek shrugged, extending his nearly-full glass of wine towards Yuri. The sleeve of his black double breasted suit rode up slightly and Yuri swore he made out outlines of tattoo ink snaking down the latter’s wrist. As quickly as he saw it, however, it had disappeared as the sleeve rode back down.

 

Just the thought sent lustful pulsations through his veins; there was no denying Yuri’s attraction to body art. It hardly helped that instead of the typical slacks, Otabek was wearing tight-fitting leather pants that did nothing less of showing off the toned quads, impressive calves, flaunting his figure without so much as a word.

 

Staring at the wine, the fashion designer willed the heat in his stomach to disappear. It was transpiring into something dangerously carnal. Grabbing the glass, he thought, fuck it, and downed the entire glass of dark sour liquid in one go. Gasping slightly as he finished, he fixed his green gaze on the silent brown pair in front of him, running his tongue over his lips. Yuri dropped the glass on the grass underfoot, refusing to break the established eye contact with Otabek for even half a second.

 

Impressed when Otabek held his gaze unflinchingly, Yuri felt his anxiety evaporate as his compulsive coping mechanism kicked in: the desire to get off. To get high out of his mind, to experience the thrill of uninhibited, no-strings-attached sex.

 

In pursuit of the ridiculous euphoria that he practically breathed for, he took a short step forward, looking down the slightest bit at Otabek. Otabek, for what it was worth, hadn't breathed a word, and was simply standing there, allowing Yuri to slowly, hungrily, drink in his features; Yuri wouldn’t be surprised if Otabek was doing the same.

 

Digging through his memories as his eyes slowly traced the dark dips and rises of the supposedly innovative genius in front of him, Yuri felt an appreciative ache flare up in his torso. Otabek had the eyes of a war-hardened soldier, Yuri decided ultimately; the eyes were set with determination, a hardened sense of dignity and knowledge.

 

He remembered Otabek being present during his own grandfather’s business contracts with the Kazakhstani’s father –the eyes, Yuri remembered the eyes. And yet… the strong, set jaw and clean shaven face, the thick, angular brows, the sharpness of his features… his appearance alone would probably dub him a hero. Yuri smirked.

 

Taking a step back, he crossed his arms. Shuddering at the sweet friction in his pants, he cocked a brow and lifted his head a little bit as a breeze toyed with his hair, looking just above the Kazakhstani’s black undercut.

 

“Would you model for me?” Yuri said, almost breathlessly, as he stared intently at the man opposite of him.

 

One corner of his mouth twitched, and Yuri knew that Otabek knew that the Kazakhstani had “won” this round; it was a given, especially since Yuri spoke first. Won what, however, Yuri wasn’t sure. He hardly minded, honestly –at least, not as much as the delicious web of knots spreading like wildfire through his torso.

 

“Yes.”

 

It was all the affirmation Yuri needed before he lunged forward hungrily, dipping his head to ensnare Otabek’s lips in his. The latter immediately responded as his mouth worked fervently against Yuri’s, eliciting a guttural moan from the blond Russian.

 

As the scent of mint, aftershave, and gasoline permeated his senses, Yuri instinctively moved a hand toward Otabek’s shoulder, resting it there as he parted his lips and begged for entrance into the man’s mouth. Otabek’s lips parted, and Yuri’s senses exploded as he tasted the sugar-sweet spice of cinnamon and sugar, of summer, of expensive red wine.

 

He groaned as he began to gasp for breath. But he didn't want to stop. Couldn't stop. Pulling Otabek in by his navy-blue tie, Yuri unabashedly smashed their chests together, not at all minding that he had to bend down a bit to ensure the gap between them was as small and as nonexistent as humanly possible.

 

His hips thrust forward when he felt strong, warm hands against his back, traveling lower, lower, and still lower until they settled at his hips, dangerously close to his rear. He moaned into Otabek’s mouth again, entirely oblivious to the world around them; Yuri had completely forgotten about the gala and was acting purely on lustful desire.

 

Otabek pulled away first. Yuri nearly whined from loss of contact, but as he began to choke from going so long without sufficient air, he stood, lips tingling numbly, staring, and gasping breathless. World spinning and cheeks flushed, he looked down and nearly grinned at the sight of the tents in their pants.

 

“Wait,” Yuri said breathlessly. “Cab.”

 

Not trusting himself with more words than necessary, he was thankful when Otabek immediately understood the message and nodded towards a gate separating them from the rest of the city. Without even waiting for Yuri, he was walking away; from behind, one could hardly tell the Kazakhstani had been making out with anyone just seconds prior.

 

Somehow, against all odds, they made it back to Yuri’s apartment. Yuri had been adamant about them keeping their hands and lips to themselves during the cab ride to Yuri’s apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. Although it was dark, he didn't trust the obscurity of the yellow car or the driver.

 

As they stumbled out of the taxi two blocks from his apartment –in other words, Yuri was stumbling and Otabek somehow looked poised as fuck– Yuri hurried forward, keeping his gaze (and trying to keep his excitement) down as he felt Otabek brushing behind him.

Swallowing the blush that threatened to turn three shades deeper, Yuri made a sharp turn into 50th Street West. Before long, he turned into the familiar building. Hurrying past the doorman, Yuri felt no shame when he pressed the elevator button and swiped his key.

 

Once alone in the elevator, he turned to Otabek, thin lips crashing against slightly thicker ones. Swallowing the fire igniting him hungrily, he pulled away with a cocky smile when the elevator reached his floor. Yuri shamelessly tugged Otabek down the halls. Reaching his suite, he fumbled with the keys and pushed the Kazakhstani man through the black door. They kissed their way into the living room, where the only light was the one illuminating the kitchen.

The pair never made it to Yuri’s bedroom.

 

Without warning, Otabek forcefully pushed Yuri’s back into the wall he wasn't even able to register existed. Loving the feeling of being dominated, loving the feeling of being controlled, of relinquishing control, even while kissing, his back arched as he cried out at the teeth grazing his collar bone.

 

“M-More,” he managed to choke out, shutting his eyes as the pressure in his pants was becoming continuously unbearable.

Otabek’s hands were planted against the wall on either side of Yuri as he pressed butterfly kisses up and down the blond’s neck before coming back up to rake Yuri’s lips with his teeth. Suppressing a whimper, Yuri jerked his hips forward in desperation.

 

“Yuri,” Otabek whispered gutturally, “I heard you're a player.”

 

Yuri bit his lip as he felt a hand rest on his thigh, ghosting up and down his inner leg. Quivering, he nodded weakly against the wall. He allowed Otabek to pull his suit jacket off him before removing the vest piece himself; the fact that the former folded the piece of clothing carefully did not escape Yuri’s heavily-lidded eyes.

 

“So, let’s play a game.”

 

Yuri shuddered as Otabek whispered into his pale skin, his arms shooting forward to pull Otabek as close as physically possible. He no longer cared if his clothes got rumpled –he had the designs stowed away in his head anyway. He couldn't bring himself to care about anything as he choked on his own saliva. Yuri was aching for release.

 

“Let's sweet talk, let's play fight, let's talk twenty-four-seven,” Otabek’s breath was now tickling Yuri’s ear in the most pleasing way possible as he sandwiched Yuri against the wall and he slowly, so slowly, began to unbutton the black dress shirt. Once he reached the last button, Otabek trailed kisses up and down his stomach, refusing to be shy.

 

“Please,” Yuri writhed, nearly going blind with desire. The gravelly voice was riling his hormones in ways he could only have dreamed of; paired with him being touched everywhere all at once, it was impossible to remain focused. Yuri’s heartbeat flooded his ears and his hips slammed upwards as he felt Otabek palm him teasingly through the fabric.

 

“Let's tell each other good morning and goodnight every day.”

 

Yuri could only choke down a desperate sob as he felt hands gripping his hips meanly, Otabek’s tongue teasing his ear, his neck, his collarbone. Oh! Yuri was going mad with want. His mouth, his voice, his breathy grunts and suppressed moans. It was all pushing Yuri to the edge.

But Otabek wasn't finished.

 

“Let's take walks together.”

 

Frustrated and almost angry, Yuri struggled under Otabek’s lips. With a violent heave, he flipped the stockier man against the wall and pressed their torsos together. Aggressively undoing the goddamn buttons to of the man’s shirt, Yuri gave an impatient snarl as he moved lower and lower.

 

Tugging the shirt out of the pants, and off of his shoulders, Yuri pinned Otabek’s arms above his head, shushing the man effectively when he bent his knee and pressed into the crotch, hands and eyes exploring the beautiful tattoos spiraling up the Kazakhstani’s left arm.

 

The symbol of a sun with a soaring steppe eagle underneath wrapped around his upper arms, accentuating his biceps, triceps, before dissipating into an erogenous tangle of intricate flowers and vines. Trailing his fingertips up and down the inked arm as he nipped at Otabek’s neck, Yuri felt the hairs on his neck stand on end as the Kazakhstani breathed an uninhibited guttural moan. The animalistic sound on auto rewind, his half-lidded eyes nearly shut at the pleasure tingling up his nether regions, his spine, and his neck.

 

Otabek saw the opening and took it. Catching Yuri off guard, he pounced. Flipping Yuri back against the wall, he teased the Russian with a cupped hand through his pants.

 

“Let's give each other nicknames. Let's go on dates,” he continued mercilessly before withdrawing his hand and cupping Yuri’s cheek.

 

Yuri swore he heard Otabek chanting in a foreign language under his breath, but in his delirious state, he no longer knew what to believe. A part of him wanted to chant the Kazakhstani’s name like a prayer; the other part of him was holding on to the last strand of pride and dignity that clung to him like beads of sweat. As dignified as a hook-up could get.

 

“Let's talk on the phone all night long. Let's hold each other.”

 

His hand was back, once again palming the barrier between them, pawing, even, at the dark purple silk.

 

Yuri could no longer contain himself when Otabek continued teasing, teasing, teasing. Oh! The agony. He was desperate to rid himself of the pants, but Yuri wasn't having his way anytime soon. Not if Otabek was the perpetrator. The Russian blond conceded to this realization as he felt breathy lips tickle its way up his chest and into the crook of his neck.

 

“Let's kiss and hug.”

 

Yuri could hear the breathiness, the desire, the hunger, interlaced in Otabek’s voice as his back arched, shoulders tensed, and hips jutted forward, slamming roughly into Otabek’s hand. There was no way in hell he would be able to backpedal now.

 

“O-Otabek!” Oh god. With a cry, Yuri was shoved over the edge, and hips bucking wildly, he was flying. Colors exploded. Purple, orange, yellow, green… his eyes were swimming as Otabek dutifully kept his hand in position.

 

“And whoever falls in love first?”

 

Yuri’s vision blurred, squeezing his eyes shut as his vision danced with spots and sparks. Ears ringing with a dull, tinny sound, he barely remembered nodding as he gasped out, “Otabek,” and tugged him in close with the last of his strength. Before his world faded to black, Yuri faintly registered Otabek whispering, nearly growling, lustfully into his ear...

 

“Loses.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> yo, find me on tumblr @bamboozledflirt. i have literally no idea regarding what i'm doing but watch me fuck up™


End file.
